


Relief

by confxsed



Category: Bon Jovi, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Language, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confxsed/pseuds/confxsed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The harsh and demanding conditions of touring leave Jon an anxious, self-loathing wreck. Before each show, he does whatever he can to calm down enough to perform.</p><p>Set in the late 80's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this, but I ended up changing my mind. Kind of a shitty idea, but whatever. Inspired by this image: http://80sbonjovi.tumblr.com/image/77808803465

The nerves were settling in and Jon had managed to escape to hide in the dressing room’s bathroom. He turned the lights on and locked the door, his hands shaking. He could hear loud voices and yelling coming out from the hallway and he shut his eyes, trying to forget where he was. The sound of the dressing room door opening made him jump, his heart rate skyrocketing.

“Jon? Are you in here?” Came the timid voice of a young, shy-sounding girl. Jon ignored her. He would not be disturbed now. _Can’t they leave me with one fucking moment’s peace before the show?_

He listened to her footsteps approach the bathroom, and he sucked in his breath, trying to be as silent as possible. She stopped right outside the bathroom door.

“Jon?” She asked again, quietly, as if she were afraid to really find him. Jon said nothing. After a drawn-out moment of silence the girl eventually left, closing the door behind her, and he let out his held breath.

Jon was supposed to be getting ready to go on stage with Richie, Tico and Dave. The crowd was in, and restless. Whenever you walked around the back you could hear the chants “BON JOVI! BON JOVI! BON JOVI!”. Jon knew he was the cause of all the chaos outside. When no one could find the lead singer, someone was bound to get in trouble. The staff were frantically looking for him. Jon didn’t really care if people were panicking. He was too caught up in his own emotions to be able to deal with other people’s.

He felt sick. When he first started playing in bands, performing in front of crowds was so easy, so natural. He doesn’t know what had changed recently, but the thought of having to go on stage and sing made him feel like crying. He was so angry, so anxious, and so nervous all the time.

Jon sighed and looked up in the mirror, examining his face with a frown. _I fucking hate these lights._ They were too bright, almost fluorescent and they highlighted every flaw of his face. Jon’s shoulder-length hair looked messy as if he had just rolled out of bed. A lump rose in his throat as he leant in, looking at himself. There were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of make-up could cover.

Disgust filled Jon as he took in his appearance. He wished he could be anywhere else. He didn’t want to do this constant touring anymore. It was so exhausting. He had to drag himself out of bed every morning and after each show, it took all the strength he had to make it back to whichever god-forsaken hotel they were staying in. And yet, he couldn’t complain. This is what he’d wanted, what he’d prayed for.

Jon’s heart clenched and he started to feel panicky. His throat tightened and he felt the stinging of his eyes. _Pull your fucking self together, Jon. You need to calm down and get out there on stage. Everyone is counting on you. Be the fucking perfect superstar they all think you are._

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but he couldn’t hold it in. Tears spilled down Jon’s cheeks and he watched the trail they left on his face. Over the curve of his cheekbone, they rolled onto his lips and he tasted their saltiness. Jon clenched a hand over his mouth to stop himself from making noise. _I will not sob. I will **not**._

Slowly, Jon undid the bandanas tied around his wrists. He knew there was something wrong with what he was doing and that it was dangerous. He knew he should stop or find help. He didn’t know who he would go to. Dave wouldn’t understand, Jon knew he wouldn’t. Richie had enough of his own problems to deal with. Tico would probably be his best option. He’s older and he’s someone Jon would usually trust with something serious. But he was afraid of the look the drummer would give him if he told him how sick he’s become.

Jon opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the bandages and the razor he’d stashed there earlier. He ran his thumb slowly over the half-healed wounds and the old scars covering the lower parts of his wrists. As ugly as it looked, Jon kind of liked it.

He picked up the sliver razor and gently pressed it into his skin. Blood bubbled up and ran down his arm. Slowly, Jon ran the blade horizontally across his skin. Pain shot through his arm, along with an odd feeling of relief. He made two cuts on each wrist, the feelings of anxiety slowly dissipating with each wound.

Jon chucked the razor into the sink, put his hands on the counter and leant his head forward, savouring this feeling of power, control and defiance. His pulse slowed, his hands stopped shaking and his body relaxed. Eventually, he decided he’d probably let everyone panic enough. He quickly washed the cuts, ignoring the stinging, and wrapped the bandage haphazardly around each wrist, hoping that he was doing enough to avoid infection. Carefully, he re-tied the bandanas around each wrist, ensuring that they covered all parts of the bandages.

Jon washed the blood that had trickled down the rest of his arm off and cleaned the razor, placing it and the roll of bandages back under the sink.

With a big sigh and one last look of contempt at himself in the mirror, Jon unlocked the door and let himself out. As soon as he left the dressing room, people started shouting.

“There you fucking are! We looked everywhere.”

“Where the hell have you been? You need to get onstage now!”

“Come on, we need to go right now,” a heavy-set man with a bald head and a black t-shirt said angrily. He grabbed Jon’s arm hard to pull him along. Jon’s wrist screamed with pain and his eyes watered

“Get the **fuck** off me!” he seethed. Jon wrenched his arm out of the man’s grip, glaring at him. He looked shocked.

Jon walked off in the direction of the stage and his bandmates, ignoring the others trailing behind him. He grinned when he reached Richie, throwing his arms around his shoulders from behind and laughing when the guitarist tried to throw him off.

Dave looked up, smiling. “You do realise you make everyone go into a frenzy when you keep disappearing before every show?” he laughed.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Does it look like I give a fuck?” he said lazily. He turned away, fiddling with the bandanas, making sure they were in place.

Picking up his guitar, Jon felt the familiar sensation of excitement and anxiety pressing on his chest. He took a steadying breath and pressed his fingers into his left wrist, letting the pain calm his nerves.

“Let’s go mother fuckers!” Richie yelled.

Just as Jon was about to step on stage, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, his eyes meeting Tico’s. The older man looked concerned.

“Are you okay, Jon? Is everything alright?” He asked. Jon subconsciously rubbed at his wrists and nodded, avoiding Tico’s eyes.

“You would tell me if there was something going on, wouldn’t you?” Tico pressed.

“Of course”, Jon replied with a weak smile. He turned away from the drummer, ignoring the guilt he felt from lying to him when he was so worried. Shaking off the feeling, Jon started up the steps leading to the stage. Time to play the rock-star.


End file.
